The one thing that one finds of importance at the end of the life of one’s family is an unexpected need for a sense of respect for what those who now irrevocably gone were really all about. The mundane routine of the activities reminiscent of any given day salvaged in memories incomplete to the task of translating their underlying struggles into stories revealing these characters. Who after all could account for all the little acts of kindness and nobility that no one would ever be aware of. Something those features were perhaps not recognizable to even one’s self, save for this present time now spent permanently without them. Recognizable all the more for the fact of the disorder that now has descended in the chaos a failure of mounting dust and increasingly noticeable frayed edges. A weakness of character in an ongoing failure to maintain those fleeting illusions of a rapidly disappearing past.
There is a growing aggravation with one’s self not to mention others in no one easily recognizing these troubling motivations. As if anyone who has no knowledge of one’s unique past should by magic realize solely by instinct alone that this place of residence is uniquely special perhaps even in a real sense hallowed ground. This apparent shabby sense of ongoing reality obviously falling apart with the ongoing sequence of events disrupting and displacing that rule of former bygone order. Chipped plates and increasingly rusting scullery, threadbare chairs and worn and spotted carpeting incrementally abounding. The arrival of trivial additions to clutter up the expected symmetry of what was considered cogent to the importance of daily existence. The slow descent of this space into ruin undeniably permanent to the point of embarrassment. A failure on one’s part to maintain some last vestige of a quickly dissolving sense of then for the sake of the sanity of now.